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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/30055113">Country Therapy</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/PyroJuese/pseuds/PyroJuese'>PyroJuese</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Hetalia: Axis Powers</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Gen, Mental Health Issues, POV First Person, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Therapy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-03-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-05-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 16:32:12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,809</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/30055113</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/PyroJuese/pseuds/PyroJuese</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The G7 countries have a new therapist that goes poking through their memories, trying to find the best way to help, but it might just end up hurting them.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The files</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Okay, big disclaimer, I'm not a therapist in the slightest, I just used google for everything, so don't take anything here as medical advice. Don't take anything here seriously either, I just wanted to give Hetalia characters a therapist to poke and prod angst out of them.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>You know, I thought my age would have made it hard to get work, but apparently not. I graduated at 23 years old, but I look like a 17 year old, and as far as I can tell, nobody wants to have a teen as a therapist. It's just one of those professions that the more experienced, aka the older, the better. But, it looks like the US FREAKIN GOVERNMENT thinks otherwise.</p><p>It was amazing. People from the Department of State just came to my dorm as I was packing up and gave me the best job humanly possible, despite just graduating. And it was a life-long job too. The salary was amazing, but the perks were downright phenomenal! I could travel, free of charge, from country to country and get free government housing in any of the G7 countries. That was a bit of a double-edged sword, since it seemed like I'd be traveling a lot whether I wanted to or not, but no gift horse was going to be looked in the mouth by me.</p><p>I had seven clients for life. Looking through the files they gave me, which looked incredibly old I might add, I was trying to memorize all of their names and match them to their faces. First was Alfred F. Jones. He also had "United States of America" under his name, but I'm confident that was a typo. A bit unprofessional, but we're all human. He looked like he was 19, but I know not to judge a book by its cover. Strange though, no actual age was listed… he had dirty blonde hair parted to the side with a big cowlick. Behind a pair of glasses were some of the bluest eyes I've ever seen. Apparently, the glasses were prescriptionless. Odd. According to the file, Alfred had Some form of PTSD, ADHD, and Dyscalculia. Even though he looked young, he was in multiple wars. I would meet in New York City for our appointments, so not that far.</p><p>My next file was for Mattew Williams. They did the same typo but now with "Dominion of Canada". I don't know what went wrong with their systems for their country to be put under the client's name slot. It was interesting to say the least. Matthew looked EXACTLY like Alfred, but overall paler and with slightly different hair. It now parted in the middle and curled instead of cow licked. Even with different last names, I was sure they were brothers. The two even both wore glasses, but Matthew's glasses actually had a prescription, so that's something. He also had PTSD, along with anxiety. I always had an interest in PTSD; my final paper was even about it. I would never say that I'm happy they have PTSD, that would be ridiculous, but it would be the disorder I'd be best at helping. The notes said "Don't call him America" five times. Odd. I didn't have plans to. Maybe it meant not to call him Alfred, since I can see myself doing that, but why America? I would have his appointments mostly in Vancouver, Canada.</p><p>After Mattew's file was Arthur Kirkland's. The typo was back again naming him "United Kingdom of Great Britain'', but with the 'don't call him America' thing, maybe this wasn't a typo. Arthur had messy blonde hair and absolutely HUGE eyebrows. He also had emerald green eyes and looked older than Alfred and Mathew, probably about 23 years old. Like them, apparently he'd had his fair share of wars, and had PTSD from them, along with depression and ODD. For his appointments I'd fly all the way to London! I've always wanted to go to the UK.</p><p>Francis Bonnefoy, or "French Republic" was the next file. He looked like he was around 26, definitely the oldest of the ones I've looked at so far. He had blonde hair too, but it was slightly darker, and a fair bit longer. Stubble lined his jaw. I usually don't care about outfits, but at least in this picture, Francis was wearing the most ridiculous blue cape thing I've ever seen in my life. It was almost as bright blue as his eyes, which were quite bright. Under his list of conditions were PTSD and Bipolar Disorder. I have a hunch all seven of my clients have PTSD. I'd meet him in Paris, so it looks like my foreign language minor would come in handy.</p><p>The next file was for two people. That was… unexpected to say the least. It would be closer to couples therapy for them. Brothers Feliciano and Lovino Vargas. Honestly, the name section was a mess for this one. From what I could tell, Feliciano was also named Northern Italian Republic and Veneziano while his brother was Southern Italian Republic and Romano. This file was formatted completely differently than the others, so I didn't know exactly how to read it, couple counseling wasn't my forte, but that didn't mean I would try any last thing I looked at before moving on was a picture of the two clients. Feliciano was young, probably around 20, and had big brown eyes and Auburn hair. His hair had a huge curl in the middle of it that didn't seem to fit with the rest of it. Lovino was a little older looking, probably 22 or 3 years old. His hair had a very similar style, stray curl and all, but it was much darker, and his eyes looked a fair bit greener. Rome and Venice seemed to be where I'd meet them, but it was inconsistent about which city.</p><p>I moved on for the time being to Ludwig's folder. Just Ludwig, no last name. Federal Republic of Germany didn't seem like that odd of a name anymore. Ludwig looked the same age as Feliciano, but despite that looked much more mature. He had blonde, slicked-back hair and light blue eyes. It says that he has PTSD and OCD. The notes said "Don't let Prussia into his sessions. Just don't." Unsurprisingly, Berlin was where I'd meet with Ludwig for our sessions.</p><p>My last file was for Honda Kiku, or State of Japan. He had flat black hair and dull brown eyes. Disregarding the Vargas's, since I didn't read that one as much, I was right, all of my clients had PTSD from a plethora of unnamed wars. Honda also had SPD and fell on the autism spectrum. I'd travel to Tokyo for our meetings.</p><p>I closed all the files. From what I read, none of their disorders were particularly high level or severe, except for maybe Mattew's, so my guess would be that none of them desperately need a therapist, but it's better to have one than to not. The draft schedule had me meeting each client less than once a month. This whole thing was odd more than anything, but I agreed to everything. I can't wait to meet Alfred next week!</p><p>~~~</p><p>A/N: So, what do you think? The actual countries will be in the next chapter.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Face to face pt. 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Disclaimer: the narrator says a lot of medical stuff like it's fact, but I cannot stress enough that I know nothing. This is not medical advice.</p><p>Day 1 of my real first job. I've been in New York City for a few days now, but now instead of sightseeing, I was sitting behind the huge wooden desk, waiting for my client to show up. Hidden by the wall of wood, my legs were shaking. I was drinking way more water than usual to try and drown the butterflies swarming my stomach, and it did help. What didn't help was that the clocks ticked past 10 o'clock. The anticipation of meeting one of the people I read so much about this past week was hard to control and said person being late was just feeding that anticipation.</p><p>I know punctuality isn't the specialty of people with Dyscalculia, so I wouldn't hold it against my client, I just was beyond anxious about my first day.</p><p>I jumped at the sound of the large door opening. "Sorry I'm late." I finally had a voice to go with the face. It sounded like how I imagined it would. "Jo's hotdog stand moved corners, and I was like 'what? When did that happen?'" He took a bite out of the hamburger in his hand, making all of his words a lot harder to understand, but I think I got what he was saying. "So I was in Portland for a while, talking to the whales, you know, and while I was doing that, Jo had a child. Can you believe it? A taco stand, Deliciosos Tacos," he completely mispronounced deliciosos, "took over Jo's corner while he was watching his kid, so he had to move. So anyway, I had to get to the bottom of what was going on, and then I went to WcDonalds anyway, cause I didn't want a hot dog. Their ice cream machine was totally broken though." He laughed. "Good ol' WcRonalds. Britain really can't get his WcRonalds right. Have you seen how wrong they make the sizes over there?"</p><p>He stared at me, waiting for an answer. There was something so mesmerizing about the man before me that pictures could never do justice. His big blue eyes didn't seem to fit his young face, they were so old looking. The juxtaposition left me speechless. Honestly, a speechless therapist isn't a good first impression. I think the most I managed was a simple "Um".</p><p>"Oh, yeah, sorry." He held a hand out to me to be shaken. "I'm America."</p><p>Finally an answer to the question of what to call him. All the clients had country-based second names, and if America was anything to go off of, the others would go by shortened country names too, but I don't want to make any assumptions.</p><p>I introduced myself to America, shaking his outstretched hand.</p><p>"Nice to meetcha. Wanna burger?" He pulled a second WcRonald's burger out of his brown jacket pocket.</p><p>I stare at it, then at him. "No thank you. Why do you have two?"</p><p>"I have way more than two. Don't worry, the last doctor never wanted any either."</p><p>"Last Doctor? If you don't mind me asking, how many therapists have you had?"</p><p>He took a leisurely seat on the provided couch. "Well it started after World War Two… and then there was that one… he left… he retired…Russia got to her… then him… then her too… man Russia got to a lotta them..." As he mumbled to himself, he started unfolding his fingers one by one. He was quiet for a second, staring at his two opened palms. "More than ten."</p><p>I nodded, writing down some notes like they taught me in college. It was exhilarating. It was like at that moment, I really did become a therapist. "I see." It was stange. America didn't look nearly old enough to be alive during World War Two, but something about him made me believe it. Probably his eyes. Those old, blue eyes were hiding something. Something tragic. Something ancient. And it was now my job to help him with that.</p><p>"Yeah. The last doctor was British. You know, you're actually the first one that I got to choose though. I was supposed to choose somebody in the 60s, but then everybody started talking about Walter Freeman so Britain and France and them stopped trusting American doctors, which was totally unfair. We haven't had any german doctors for a similar reason. Actually, Germany wasn't a part of this til, like, after the whole watergate stuff. It used to be just an Ally thing, but China totally dipped, and Italy wanted in, so somehow the whole axis became a part of it too. Russia's bosses never really liked doctors, so he kept getting pulled in and out of it, then he left the G8, which honestly, I miss him being in the G8. Now it's the G7, and that's just not as fun, you know? I don't even remember what G8 was supposed to stand for, but I always thought of it like the G stands for Great, since we are great, so it was the Great Eight, and that's awesome because it rhymes. Great Seven doesn't rhyme though. I'm not saying that I would want Russia to come back, but we should at least get an eighth member again. I'm sure that Spain or China would be down to join. It'd be awesome if I can get Mexico to join like how I got Canada to! I think he's too poor to be great enough for the Great Eight though, but honestly, Italy isn't that rich and he's still a part of it."</p><p>The most important part of therapy is understanding the client. By letting him ramble, I can start to piece together how he thinks, try and put myself into his shoes. Second-hand notes from past doctors are useless compared to really listening. I can definitely see the ADHD and Dyscalculia, but not so much the PTSD. Chances are he's avoiding or denying it. The exact opposite of what someone should do. Bottling up emotions isn't healthy, but it's more common than people think. Prolonged Exposure and Cognitive Processing Therapy are not exactly a great way to start day one with a client. He'll need to trust me first, and for that I need to listen.</p><p>"Sometimes I write the number eight instead o in notes and letters and stuff and it pisses off Britain to no end." He started laughing. "He really h8s it and starts fix8ing on it. It's a real easy way to agit8 him." I assume he was mentally adding eights to those words.</p><p>The whole rest of the hour was America jumping from topic to topic. It was very informative. I didn't even have to ask why he wears fake glasses, he offered up the information himself. He started wearing them after he took over Texas from Mexico to emulate Klark Kent in a way. From what I know about history, I don't think he'd be nearly old enough to be there for that, but that didn't seem to bother me that much. I don't think Superman was made by the time Texas became a state either, but I wasn't going to argue with my client. After all, he could be right. I couldn't shake the feeling that America was, in a way, supernatural, so an otherworldly grasp on knowledge wasn't a surprise. It might be crazy, but if I was told that my clients were living embodiments of countries or something, I might actually believe them.</p><p>No, that's crazy. I've heard about people who read history and think they were there, so that would explain why someone so young was talking about World War Two and Nixon's Presidency like he was there. The things human brains come up with is truly remarkable.</p><p>By the time the hour was up, the conversation was about his birthday, which he calls his anniversary. "Last year the Great British Bake Off was oddly popular at my place, and it was almost my anniversary, so I thought 'why not' and called Britain to find out how to bake a cake. Huge mistake. The cake was, like, white, instead of neon green, and tasted raw. I thought 175 degrees was a bit low, cause usually it's like 300 or 400 degrees. I probably should have known it wouldn't work out; British food always sucks. I can't believe I used to like it as a kid… Have you ever tried Marmite?"</p><p>"No, I haven't."</p><p>"It's really awful, but it used to be my favorite thing when I was young. Funny how that works, huh?"</p><p>I nodded. "Well, it's been an hour, but you're free to stay longer if you need too."</p><p>"Nah, it's good, I have a meeting about taxes or something at noon so I should probably get going. It was awesome meeting you! This is gonna be so fun!"</p><p>Fun… Therapy wasn't supposed to be torture, but unless it's with young kids, it's not really supposed to be 'fun' either. It honestly kind of makes me think the previous therapists didn't do much besides listen to his stories. I know it's a bit of a leap, but when I interviewed PTSD patients for a research essay, one specifically stated that going to therapy wasn't fun, but more so relieving. America just had such an odd choice of words. If his therapists have been allowing him to continue bottling up his emotions for, according to him, decades, it can't be good.</p><p>Regardless, I smiled at my client. "It was great meeting you too."</p><p>/*~*~*~*\\\</p><p>I've been to Canada before, but only twice. It really wasn't that different from the US, but going to another county for work was still very exciting, and the best is yet to come.</p><p>I found the office building where I was supposed to meet my client, and soon found my office. It was about 9:30, which was 30 minutes early and when I hoped to get there. I always want to get there before my client, since the last thing I want to do is keep them waiting. With so much extra time, I have a change to explore my new office. It was pretty typical with a desk for me, a couch for my client, and mostly empty filing cabinets that just had some office supplies here and there. By far the most interesting thing was that the door seemed to open on it's own, even though it was a normal wooden door.</p><p>I started messing with the door, and it seemed normal enough. I must not have closed it properly and the wind blew it open or something. It was almost 10, so I went back to my desk. Explaining my fascination with a door would definitely get my client and I starting off on a weird foot at least. After sitting back at my desk, I got a sudden, overwhelming feeling that I was being watched. I looked around out of instinct, even though I knew I was alone. With the door, and now this, I was slightly closer to believing in ghosts.</p><p>While looking around, I saw someone meekly waving out of the corner of my eye. Turning back around, I could see what was apparently watching me. "Hi, I'm Canada." His voice was so quiet.</p><p>I couldn't believe it. He looked even more like America in person. At least in the pictures, his slightly different hair color and style were noticeable. He also somehow looked nearly identical to what he was standing in front of. Could he have opened the door and walked in without me noticing? "Oh, I am so, so sorry! I didn't see you there!"</p><p>"Don't worry, eh. It happens all the time…"</p><p>That made me feel even worse. He basically said 'I'm used to it' which is one of the WORST things a client can say. It means they're complicit with being wronged, maybe even expecting it. Mindsets like that can get abuse victims back into bad relationships, or clients of any sort back into their bad habits. "It shouldn't," I say. "It'll never happen again, I promise." I might have been a bit too quick to make a promise, but I honestly panicked. For whatever reason, it was incredibly hard to keep my eyes focused on him, but I couldn't break my promise now. A broken promise is the quickest way to ruin any trust, which a lack of trust would be detrimental to a person in my position.</p><p>"No, it really is fine."</p><p>"It was unprofessional, and I really am sorry." I force a smile. "Do you want to start this over?"</p><p>I thought I saw him nod, but it was so hard to see him I couldn't be certain. I introduced myself, and he introduced himself again. I heard the nervousness in his voice. That wasn't ideal. I needed him to be comfortable around me before I could start trying to help him. "So, Canada, why don't you tell me a bit about yourself."</p><p>"I'm not that interesting…" he mumbled.</p><p>"I'm sure that's not true," I say, but that was as much as I was going to push it. Forcing him to talk wouldn't build up trust at all. "But do you want to talk about something that You think is interesting? Friends, family, anything really."</p><p>"Um…" Looking at him, I couldn't stop thinking about my last client, so I thought I'd hear more about America, but that didn't seem to be the case. "I-I have a pet bear. Mr. Kujimiro. We live together. He forgets my name a lot, but I think I forget his too."</p><p>"Oh…" A bear? Is that legal? "What type of bear?"</p><p>"A polar bear."</p><p>"Interesting. How long have you known him?" While I was mostly asking to get Canada talking, I was genuinely curious.</p><p>"As long as I can remember. He was actually the first person I ever talked to, if you can count a bear as a person. Kumajori asked me who I was, and then I said 'I'm Canada'." I started nodding to show I was listening. It was hard listening to him because of how quiet he spoke. I even have abnormally good hearing, so I can imagine past therapists not hearing him at all. "He looked exactly the same back then, even though it was centuries ago," Canada continued. "I think I might have made him immortal…"</p><p>I was taking notes, since I had a hunch I might forget what I was being told. My pencil stopped when he said immortal. What did he mean? And he was talking in centuries like America did. "How so?" I asked.</p><p>"I'm not entirely sure, but I think countries can make their favorite animals immortal with them, but it doesn't happen consciously. Prussia has a bird that I've heard he'd had since he was a tectonic knight. China's panda has been alive for millennia. But not all of Greece's cats are immortal. I'm not sure if America made Tony immortal or if his species just lives for a long time."</p><p>Canada looked at me, and I guess my face made him realize something. "You have no idea what I'm talking about, I'm sorry, I probably sound crazy. How much did America tell you about…" he was obviously at a loss for the right words, so I gave him a second. "A-about us c-county… human… things…"</p><p>"Not much." I didn't want to lie.</p><p>"That's not very good." He started telling me all about the 'country human things', AKA my clients. He sounded really nervous and apologized frequently for not being able to explain something well. It was a bit weird that he was a 'country human thing' but didn't know everything about them. He didn't even know what to call them, which is why I know I should mentally put quotes around it. 'Country human things' is honestly not a very flattering name, so I wrote CHTs in my notes. It was shorter too. But even with his uncertainties, that's not to say he didn't know anything; what he said actually explained A LOT. From what I gathered, the CHTs just kinda form as babies when enough people recognize a place as their home. Except for Germany though, Apparently, he was never a baby, but Canada didn't know much about Germany. From there, other CHTs usually find them, adopt them as siblings, and raise them. For him and America, it was Britain, but France also forced his way into their lives. CHTs are basically immortal, but they can die. Canada knew a horrible economy or something like that could kill, like how the famous fall killed the Roman Empire, but he also knew that a lot of countries were younger than they should be historically, so there could be other ways to die. Injuries and old age can't kill a CHT though. If they get an injury that would be fatal to a person, they just come back alive mostly fine, a little weaker if anything. They also physically age on a weird scale, but never get much older than thirty. They also have some other super-human features, but that tends to vary. Apparently America is ungodly strong, Cuba can teleport, Britain knows magic, China can make Chinatowns instantly, and Russia can do something, but Canada didn't want to say what after bringing it up. Usually, major things happening in the country affect the corresponding CHT, but it can work the other way around too.</p><p>Everything Canada was telling me made no sense, but I believed every word of it. Even if they were barely visible, his eyes were way too old to belong to his young face, so this was the best explanation. Still, I'll admit, it was a bit far-fetched.</p><p>If it was true, my eight clients were real, live embodiments of nations. How would this affect my therapy? 'Your client is always a human' they used to say in school. It meant we should always treat them with respect and never like an outsider for whatever condition they had, but that was a lie. CHTs couldn't count as humans, could they? It'd have to treat them differently, right? I can't try anything risky with them, what if that messes up the nations they represent? It'd be like a butterfly effect, but in real-time! What if helping their PTSD will cause them to go into more wars? I'm not a therapist for eight people, I'm one for thousands. Millions. Right out of college. They never told me this when I was being hired.</p><p>"I'm sorry," Canada said, which broke me out of my thoughts. "I-I shouldn't have told you. Citizens almost never react well. I should have known better."</p><p>Human or not, Canada acted like one. My overthinking was making him worse. "No, it's okay, I'm fine. Thank you for telling me. It was super helpful." Maybe this is why America found therapy 'fun'. The others were too busy walking on eggshells to help them. I won't be like them. While 'your client is always a human', might not be true, the point still stands. The only thing different is that they have hundreds of lifetime's worth of wars and trauma.</p><p>Canada stood up from the couch. "It's 11. I should probably get going…"</p><p>We exchanged some classic goodbyes and nice-meeting-yous and he left. At least I think he did, I wasn't much different without him there. All I know is that there's going to be work to do. But before I see him again, I have six more CHTs to meet. I'm going to Europe.</p><p>\\\*~*~*~*/</p><p>I ran into the building completely out of breath, beyond tired, and felt like having a heart attack, but none of that mattered. I was late. If I learned anything it's that first impressions are everything and my first impression with my British client would be showing up ten minutes after I was supposed to start and looking like a mess.</p><p>I slid to a stop in front of the front counter. I couldn't tell you how I looked, but it must not have been good if the receptionist's first reaction was saying "Blimey, are you okay?"</p><p>I nodded. Of course, I wasn't okay at the moment, but it's not like I could turn the poor guy into a therapist. I tried to ask which room was mine, but I was too out of breath to say anything intelligible.</p><p>"Let me guess," a new voice said. I looked back at the sound to see a man put down his newspaper to reveal a familiar face. It was Mr. Kirkland/England/UK/Britain with his eyebrows that looked even larger in person. "You're the new G7 therapist?"</p><p>I nodded. Not much else I could do, still gasping for air.</p><p>The man sighed. "Leave it to America to pick a bloody infant," he mumbled. It was so quiet, if it wasn't for my great hearing I probably wouldn't have been able to understand that. I did though. Not a huge fan, but I knew where he was coming from. "Follow me. I know what room we're supposed to be in."</p><p>After all the running, I could hardly feel my legs, but I managed to follow him to the fifth door down. It said Dr. Jones on the door, which wasn't my name. I assume my client saw where I was looking, either that or he could read minds (which was apparently a very real possibility), because he explained it for me. "Dr. Jones was our last therapist. She retired recently, hence why you're here now. We'll update it soon."</p><p>Before opening the door, he stopped and held his hand toward me. "You can call me Britain.</p><p>I took the opportunity to introduce myself too while shaking his hand. "I'm so sorry I was late, I've never been in such a different time zone before," I said between my still heavy breaths.</p><p>"It's quite alright, just don't make a habit of it."</p><p>I took a seat at the desk as Britain sat at the seat. I was beyond thankful to finally have weight off my legs, but my heart was still pounding.</p><p>"For the record, I'm not sure how much the Americans told you, but I don't really need a therapist. This is just a formality. Personally, I find it a waste of time, but my boss insisted on it."</p><p>"Your boss? Who would that be?"</p><p>"At the time it was Clement Attlee. This whole thing was actually his idea as a way to help the general public's morale, but it doesn't really work like that. I have no effect on the general public, more so they have an effect on me. Currently, David Cameron doesn't really care what I do in my free time, but the Queen thinks I should still show up to these sessions."</p><p>It was interesting hearing the off-handed comments about being a CHT. I know both America and Canada are young country-wise, still ancient compared to me though, but Britain is much older and would probably know more about their 'species' than my last client. I wasn't going to outright ask any of my clients about being a CHT, since I don't want to appear like I'm underqualified. I focused on the other parts of what he said.</p><p>"What do you think about your boss?" I asked.</p><p>Britain shrugged. "He can be pretty gormless, but I've had worse."</p><p>"I see." Gormless. I love that word. When I was younger, I loved this one old British TV show and the main character would call everybody 'gormless' and 'prats', which I now know that's slang for idiot.</p><p>I took note of how my client was sitting. His arms were crossed as well as his legs. Conscious or not, it's a defensive pose saying that he didn't want to open up to me. His way of talking seemed to show that too. Step one would be to change that attitude. "Have you ever seen the show Doctor Hemlock?"</p><p>"The one from the 70s?" he asked. I nodded. "No, I was busy fighting Iceland in the 1970's, but I know of it. Why?"</p><p>"I'm just trying to make conversation."</p><p>"Dr. Jones and I never wasted our time with small talk."</p><p>I know it's petty, but I really didn't like being compared to another therapist. I know that he picked this elusive 'Dr. Jones' since America mentioned it, so I know he's bound to be unkind to the change. I guess my young face and lateness didn't help. Smiling, I interlock my fingers. "So what did you and Dr. Jones do together?"</p><p>"Most of the time we sat in silence and drank tea together. Have you ever had tea before?"</p><p>It felt so condescending. That was probably the ODD shining through, or maybe he just really didn't like me. I doubt my answer would help that. "Yes, I've had tea before, but I don't like it. I have a mild caffeine allergy, but I have nothing against you having some. Make yourself comfortable."</p><p>Even without words, I could practically feel his judging. His arms and legs were even more crossed, if that's even possible. I would get nowhere like this.</p><p>I tried the Dr.-Jones-approach of just sitting in silence, staring at each other. He made some tea with an automatic water boiler and tea bags that were in a cabinet. If I arrived on time, I probably would have found it and made preemptive tea. If I learned anything from Doctor Hemlock, it's that British people love tea, and boy do they love the queen.</p><p>"So," I eventually said. I absolutely hated sitting in silence, and it wasn't accomplishing anything. "The queen. You've known her a long time right? Can you tell me about her?"</p><p>He drank some of his tea. He was obviously in absolutely no hurry to respond. "I know America's education system is rubbish, but do they honestly not tell you about the queen?"</p><p>"They do, I just wanted to hear about her from your point of view." That's kind of a lie; school never taught me about British royalty, besides King George III. Actually, I was never really taught about British history, besides the parts leading up to the revolution. I can see why America, the country- not my client, has a reputation of making people clueless about the world outside of their country. Honestly, probably my client too. I do know a thing or two about the queen just by reading the news, but I have no idea what her political power is, if she has any.</p><p>"Well, from 'my point of view' she's a very swell citizen and an icon. Granted, her position used to be a lot more openly powerful back in the day, but the current queen is still quite polite, and really cares for her country, which is more than I can say for some prime ministers…"</p><p>"What makes you say that?"</p><p>"I would think that'd be pretty obvious."</p><p>He didn't want to open up to me. Every question I asked, he took forever to respond, then responded so condescendingly and backhanded. He talked to me like I was stupid. I'm not stupid. It didn't help that he kept obviously looking at the clock.</p><p>In school they did mention that there'd always be uncooperative patients, but I never expected this level of implied animosity.</p><p>I went back to sitting in silence and letting him drink his tea. It dawned on me, I'm not qualified for this. I have no idea how to get him to trust me and see me as somebody to talk to. I will though. One day, hopefully soon.</p><p>"Well, would you look at the time. It seems like our session is finished," Britain said at the exact stroke of 11. "It'll be the same time next month. I recommend scheduling an earlier flight so jet lag is less of an issue next time."</p><p>"I will. It was a pleasure to meet you." I'm honestly not sure if that was a lie.</p><p>"Right. Now I have business to attend to." He left.</p><p>I have business too, but I'll have to save that for later. First, my french client and I have a meeting.</p><p>/*~*~*~*\\\</p><p>Ah, la France. Le pays d'où vient ma deuxième langue. Or, in English, the country where my second language comes from. My dad wasn't French, but he learned French in school and taught it to me when I was young. I know seven languages now, but I've always liked French the most, so finally being in France was a dream come true. And in PARIS too! The room I was assigned to had a gorgeous view of the Eiffel Tower. It was like I was in a fairy tale.</p><p>"Yes, it is beautiful, no?"</p><p>My attention turned away from the window to look at the speaker. It was my client. I assume he goes by France, but the whole name thing was such a mess that I wasn't going to take my assumption too seriously. He was wearing the same ridiculous blue outfit that he was in the picture, but he also had on bright red pants. It was eye-catching to say the least.</p><p>To my surprise, my client walked closer to me and held my hand. "Mon Dieu, but not as beautiful as you, mon amour~" Mon Dieu is my God, and mon amour is my love. He wasn't being subtle. He kissed my hand that he was holding.</p><p>"Thank you. I'm-"</p><p>"Oui, I know who you are. Angleterre told me all about you, but he never told me how stunning your eyes are. Ils sont si radieux et pénétrants. Chefs-d'œuvre irisés." Translation: 'They are so radiant and penetrating. Iridescent masterpieces.' He kept switching from English to French, I couldn't tell which language he wanted to carry the conversation in. It might be fully Franglish sessions, which I wasn't that opposed to, but it would be odd. I'm actually not sure if he expected me to know what he was saying. Radieux, pénétrants, and irisés weren't really common words for non-native speakers to know. Most Americans probably would need a dictionary for 'iridescent' in English. If I had to guess, he was trying to serenade me with a love language.</p><p>'Thank you, the French Republic; your eyes are beautiful too. Would you like to sit down so we can get started?' I asked in French.</p><p>He looked so surprised. At least surprised enough for him to let go of my hand. Looks like I was right, he didn't think I could understand him. "You speak French? But I thought you were American." I know I should be mad that he assumes no Americans know French, but I must admit, there really aren't many that do.</p><p>"Indeed I do, and I learned a few more languages for my minor." I walk to my desk as I talk. "But enough about me, I'd love to get to know you. I can do this in English or French, whichever you like best."</p><p>My client, who still hasn't introduced himself, took a seat on the couch. "I usually do these things in English. Most of the therapists don't speak the language of love, so it's easier to just stick with the language of business. But, you- you're different, mon amor~" He dragged the chair closer. "I can see a magnifique future ahead of us~"</p><p>Man, he was relentless. "I can see a professional future ahead of us."</p><p>"Aw, you are no fun," he pouted. "I can change that~"</p><p>"I'm not interested in having romantic relationships. Especially with clients," I said. And ESPECIALLY especially century-old immortal clients.</p><p>He took the rejection well. Too well. I don't really think he took it at all… "If you insist, mon amour."</p><p>"Why don't you tell me a bit about yourself?"</p><p>"Of course, it wouldn't be a first date without getting to know each other better~"</p><p>He started telling me about his 'many talents'. It was mostly in English, but he did speak French for the simple words that I'm sure most people would know without even studying the language. Apparently, he is an amazing chef, a talented mime, and the best person at protesting/striking/revolting that he knows. He probably found that a lot more impressive than I took it as. He also really hates Britain… but simultaneously really loves him… That might be because of the bi-polar, but I'm not entirely sure. Throughout the whole session, he continued to do what I can only call flirting. I still wasn't interested. Excess desire for sex was a possible symptom of Bipolar disorder, which the flirting could be because of that. Indulging in my client's symptoms wouldn't help anybody, plus I was genuinely not interested in having a romantic relationship with him for multiple reasons.</p><p>I don't know why, but the hour honestly flew by faster here than with any of my other clients. Faster than I expected, a light chime was heard through the room. It was the turn of the hour. 11 o'clock.</p><p>"Aw, over already?" France said. He stood up and smiled. "Ah well, all good things must come to an end…" He blew me a kiss. "J'attends avec impatience notre prochain rendez-vous, mon amour~" In English: 'I'm looking forward to our next date, my love.'</p><p>He left, waving and cooing 'Au Revoir and 'Adieu' all the way up until the door closed.</p><p>I really need a way to get him to take romantic rejection better. But before that, I have to study up on my couple's therapy books. I'll be going to Italy soon.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>A/N: I'm really slow at writing this story, but I'm glad you guys like it! I'd love to hear your thoughts in a review/comment. I'm not saying comments would get the next chapter out faster, but it wouldn't hurt... As Dr. Therapist said, next is the Italy brothers, then Germany and Japan. After that, I'm not sure I should make the chapters focus on one country at a time or have all the stories run simultaneously. I'll find out when I get there. Thanks for reading and really don't take any of this as medical advice. Til next time!</p>
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